Early Days with Angela
by writergal85
Summary: A brief story (that's probably AU by now). Takes place right after the Turners adopt Angela. Originally posted on my blog, moved here.
1. Early Morning

_**Author's note: A**_ _ **tale that is probably AU/doesn't follow canon by now, and takes place a few weeks after Angela arrives. Originally posted on my blog, moved here.**_

As always, Angela's cry woke her immediately. Shelagh rolled over to grab her glasses and squint at the clock. Just after 5 a.m., which meant she was probably hungry, and in need of a change.

Patrick's side of the bed was cool and empty; he must still be out at the 2 a.m call that had woken both him and their daughter. The trill of the phone always seemed to set Angela off, as if she knew such calls were usually not good news. Unfortunately, these interruptions were frequent, and Shelagh, Patrick and Timothy had taken to rushing toward the phone at the first ring, so as not to upset the littlest member of the Turner household.

She grabbed her dressing gown off the end of the bed and shrugged it on as she hurried down the hallway to the baby's room. Luckily she reached her before her cries turned into full-blown wails and woke Timothy next door.

"There, there, little one, Mummy here's," she cooed, deftly scooping up her daughter and cradling her against her chest. Angela's cries quieted into grousing as Shelagh made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

She'd set out everything last night, so all that remained was to heat up the bottle. While waiting for the water to boil, she tried to calm her daughter with kisses and murmured lullabies. Angela liked being cuddled – sometimes being held close was all she wanted – and Shelagh probably indulged her a bit much, but she didn't care. She was getting rather good at doing lots of things one-handed, but there were days when she wished she could be like the octopus in Tim's science book and grow an extra set of arms.

Bottle heated, she settled on the sitting room sofa with the baby and began to feed her.

"That's –" she yawned. "That's better, isn't it?" Angela blinked sleepily in reply. It was odd, but sometimes these feedings reminded Shelagh of early morning prayers at the convent. The sense of calm she felt was the same, only now it came as much from the warm weight of her daughter and her gurgles of contentment as it did from prayer.

She heard the familiar sound of the Austin rumbling outside and a few minutes later the soft creak of the front door opening. Patrick was home.

He trudged into the sitting room and looked slightly bewildered when he saw her. "You're up?"

She gave him an exhausted smile. "I'm always up at this hour, Patrick."

"Right. Sorry." He sat down next to her and rubbed a hand across his eyes. "I lost track of the time."

"Mother and baby all right?"

He nodded and smiled. "How about here? Mother and baby all right?"

"Perfect," she said, yawning again. "Tired, but perfect."

He ran a finger through the baby's downy hair. "Do you want me to take her so you can sleep some more?"

She shook her head. "No, I'll be –" she yawned again. "I'll be fine. Go to bed, catch a few hours before church."

Patrick took in his wife's wan complexion and the violet shadows under her eyes, but said nothing more. He knew she valued this time with Angela and wanted to savor every moment of their daughter's babyhood – he did too. But he worried about her and hoped she wasn't wearing herself out. Later, after church and Sunday lunch, he'd take the child and convince Shelagh to lie down for a few hours.

"All right. Love you." He kissed her cheek. "And you," he said, bestowing another kiss on the baby's head before rising and heading for the stairs.

After a few more moments of peace, Angela wriggled and twisted away from the bottle, indicating she was finished. Shelagh shifted the infant to burp her and leaned further back into the sofa. Through the gap in the curtains, she could see the pale light of the approaching dawn, and she felt a strange, dizzying sense of deja vu (although that could have just been fatigue). How many dawns had she watched, delirious with exhaustion, in her old life? How many babies had she held in the wee hours of the morning? She'd lost count, but there must have been hundreds, every one of them precious, of course, to _their_ mothers...but none of them were Angela. She pressed a kiss to the baby's temple and cradled her in her lap again, readjusting the pink knit blanket. None of them were hers.


	2. Rainy Afternoon

**_Author's note:_** ** _Because even "naturals" have rough days._**

"It's raining out and Angela's crying again," Tim said on his way upstairs.

"Yes, Timothy, I can hear her." Shelagh had only just set her down, seizing the opportunity of having both hands free to search the cupboards for something for dinner. She'd eaten next to nothing since breakfast, only a few bites of a cheese sandwich and a biscuit with her tea, but it seemed she wasn't going to get anything now, not when Angela demanded her attention. She picked up the infant from the nearby Moses basket and began to rock her.

The day had not begun well. Shelagh had woken up late with a terrible crick in her neck, having fallen asleep in the early dawn on the sitting room sofa, Angela still cradled in her arms. She and Patrick passed the baby back and forth as they each rushed to get ready, bolted down breakfast and got Timothy up and moving for church.

Angela, usually so quiet and drowsy on Sunday mornings, had whimpered through most of the service, working herself up to a full-blown wail right in the middle of the sermon. Shelagh had spent the rest of the service in the hall, trying to soothe her.

She'd gotten a brief respite during the drive home – the hum of the Austin's motor never failed to settle her daughter. But then, just as they'd walked in the door, Patrick was called out to an accident at docks. Shelagh was left alone with a fussy baby, a hungry 11-year-old and an untidy house.

Tim had tried to make Angela smile with funny faces while Shelagh made lunch, but once his sister's crying started up full-force again, he took his sandwich and disappeared with his Spitfire into the garden.

Shelagh hadn't been able to leave the baby for more than five minutes since then. She couldn't figure out what was wrong. Angela had been fed and changed and should have gone down for a nap more than an hour ago, but no matter how much she rocked her or what lullabies she sang, Shelagh couldn't get her to sleep. As soon as she'd set the child in her Moses basket, her eyes would snap open and she'd start crying again, not stopping until Shelagh had picked her up. Even now, as she cradled her on the sofa, her cries only settled into whimpers and she squirmed slightly in her mother's arms.

Shelagh closed her eyes, reciting her way through familiar prayers, as she used to do during her more stressful days as a midwife – days when the births were long and the clinic was crowded and it seemed she would never sleep. Back then, she'd prayed and reminded herself that mothers were the ones that really mattered; whatever she did, the mothers were the real heroes.

She was a mother now. Shelagh opened her eyes, looked down at her daughter and felt love fill and warm her.

But she also felt tired and hungry and her head was pounding. And when she thought about the cluttered sitting room and the messy kitchen – breakfast pans and Angela's bottles still in the sink – not to mention the laundry that awaited her tomorrow, she wanted to cry along with her daughter.

She blinked back her tears and shifted Angela so the baby's head rested nearer her shoulder. "What's wrong, dearest? Hmm?"

She'd never been this fussy before. Was it colic, perhaps? She felt slightly warm. What if she was getting ill? She didn't seem ill – she was eating fine – but perhaps she should get Patrick to check her when he got home. Where was he? Surely the accident at the docks hadn't taken that long. Shelagh was used to him rushing out on a call at a moment's notice, but she'd never felt his absence as keenly as she had over these past weeks since Angela had arrived.

The doorbell rang and Shelagh groaned. _Lord, grant me patience_ – of all the days to have unexpected guests!

"Timothy?" she called upstairs as she tried to straighten up the sitting room with one hand. After a few moments, her stepson clamored down the stairs.

"Could you answer the door please? And if it's Colin or Jack, please ask if you can go over to theirs to play. I'm still trying to get your sister to nap," she said, shifting the whimpering infant to her other arm.

Tim shrugged and went into the hallway. He returned a few moments later, along with Sister Julienne.

"Sister?" The nuns and nurses usually called before visiting. Why – oh no. The Christmas pageant. Last week, she'd agreed to help with the planning and was supposed to meet with the vicar, Chummy and Sister Winifred at Nonnatus this afternoon. She'd completely forgotten.

The elder nun smiled kindly at her. "Good afternoon, Shelagh, and how is the little one?"

"A bit fussy, just now, I'm afraid. Sister, I'm so sorry. The planning for the pageant, I completely forgot, I don't know why –"

Sister Julienne held up a hand to stop her. "It is perfectly fine, my dear, everyone will understand. I merely came by to make sure you were all right. It's not like you to miss appointments without a reason. And it looks like you've got quite a good one." She ran a finger down the baby's reddened cheek. "Someone's not too happy, are they?"

"I'm sure she'll settle in a moment. Please, have a seat," she said. "Timothy, you could you fetch Sister Julienne a cup of tea?"

Tim frowned. "Um, I don't think there are any clean cups and the sink's full of Angela's bottles and stuff."

Shelagh's face flamed. She'd always prided herself on keeping a neat and comfortable home, and yet she couldn't even muster up a clean teacup for the sister.

"I'm not in need of tea, thank you," Sister Julienne said. "But perhaps, Timothy, you might help me out for a bit this afternoon and give your mother a chance to rest for a while?"

"Sister, you don't have to –"

"Shelagh." The nun rested a hand on her knee. "There is no shame in asking for help. You know as well as I do the first few weeks with a newborn can be difficult."

"I know, Sister. I've spoken with mothers, I've taken care of babies, I just –" She paused and looked into her daughter's face, scrunched up with tears for reasons she couldn't fathom. "I love her –"

"But you're tired, and so is she. We all have bad days, even those of us who are naturals." She smiled so gently and without judgment that Shelagh felt the tension start to drain from her body.

"Timothy, why don't you start on the washing up while I see what I can do to calm your sister?" Sister Julienne held out her arms for the child.

Shelagh hesitated. "You're sure you're not too busy –"

"No," Sister Julienne said. "Never too busy to help a friend."

Shelagh gently transferred Angela to the nun's arms. The child wriggled and cried louder at first, but then settled as Sister Julienne began to rock her. Shelagh blinked back exhausted but grateful tears. "Thank you."

"Go upstairs and rest my dear," the Sister said. "All will be well here."


	3. Peaceful Evening

Shelagh awoke to darkness and complete quiet, which was strange – so strange that she bolted upright in bed, forgetting for a moment where she was and what had happened. Then she remembered Angela, the afternoon chaos and Sister Julienne, and relaxed back into the pillows. All was well.

After allowing herself another five minutes of drowsy peace, she fumbled for her glasses and glanced at the clock. She'd slept nearly three hours, but the Sister had been right – she'd needed it. Shelagh felt much more refreshed and less despairing now, though a little guilty she'd kept Sister Julienne so long. She should get up, relieve the Sister and thank her profusely for her help.

She stood and stretched languidly, smoothed her hair and dress and padded downstairs.

As she reached the landing the sharp tangy aroma of fish and chips soaked in vinegar hit her, and her stomach growled. Suddenly she felt ravenous and remembered she hadn't really had a meal since breakfast. She followed the scent toward the kitchen, but stopped when she reached the sitting room.

Patrick stood in the middle of the dimly lit room, his back toward her, tail of the pink knit blanket swaying slightly as he rocked Angela. Shelagh smiled. She'd seen this scene, or variations of it, several times since she'd known Patrick. It was his proud smile at his son's violin recital and the way he'd teased him as they practiced for the three-legged race. It was the look of wonder on his face the moment Timothy had walked on his own again, and the complete adoration in his eyes the day they brought Angela home. He was a wonderful father. It was one of the first things she'd found attractive about him, before she'd even been willing to admit there was an attraction, and the more she saw him with their children, the deeper she fell in love with him.

He turned slightly on the carpet and spotted her. "Oh, good," he said, just above a whisper. "You're awake."

Shelagh reached for the baby, but he shook his head. "Just got her to sleep. Are you hungry? There's a plate of fish and chips in the oven."

"Starving actually."

"Sit, eat. Let me just put her down, check on Tim, and then I'll join you."

Walking slowly, carefully, he set Angela in the Moses basket near the sofa. Shelagh caught a glimpse of their daughter's face on his shoulder – sleeping like a little angel, no sign of whatever complaints or fears had caused her earlier tantrum. Perhaps she had just been tired.

She moved to the kitchen, put on the kettle for tea and took her plate out of the oven. The sink was completely empty of bottles, the counter spotless and all the dishes neatly stacked in their places in the cupboards. Even the floor looked cleaner and she suspected it had been mopped. She'd definitely have to find a proper way to thank Sister Julienne later. A cake, perhaps – the elder nun had a secret fondness for gingerbread, if she remembered correctly – and a long visit with Angela on one of her sunnier days.

Patrick came back downstairs just as she was tucking in to her dinner. "Both little Turners asleep. Well, Angela's asleep – finally – but Tim –"

"Asked for just five more minutes?" Shelagh said with a grin. "Let him stay up a while longer. I'm sure he did his share of scrubbing and bottle-washing today. He deserves a reward."

Patrick hadn't quite known what to think when he'd come home to find his son, wearing Shelagh's flowered apron over his jumper, up to his elbows in a sink of dirty dishes. Even more peculiar to find Sister Julienne on his sitting room sofa, rocking a very fussy Angela, and Shelagh nowhere in sight. He'd almost walked out of the house and walked back in again to make sure he wasn't having some weird dream.

Of course, once Sister Julienne had explained what had happened – she'd come by for a visit and offered to help out a bit while Shelagh took a nap – Patrick had pitched in with the clean-up, moving all of his books and papers out of their precarious stacks around the sitting room and putting them back in his study and then helping Tim take his toys and books back to his room.

"Thank you, too," Shelagh said. "It's been a while since I've seen the kitchen and sitting room this clean."

"Well, Sister Julienne helped out quite a bit," he said as he stirred his tea. "And Nurse Mount."

Shelagh dropped her fork. "Nurse Mount was here?" Shelagh knew of the nurse's penchant for cleanliness and utmost organization; it was one of the reasons she'd hired her the week she'd helped run Nonnatus House. What must she have thought walking into such a chaotic mess?

Patrick chuckled. "She came by, looking for Sister Julienne to ask her about a patient, saw the mess and couldn't resist, I suppose. She practically chased Tim and I out of the house, and by the time we came back with dinner, she'd cleaned the entire downstairs. I think she would have tackled the bedrooms next if Sister Julienne hadn't stopped her." Seeing his wife's horrified expression, Patrick squeezed her hand. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I think she rather enjoyed it."

Shelagh sighed. "But the nurses work so hard already and get so little time off. I hadn't meant for her – or Sister Julienne – to spend their Sunday cleaning our house and caring for Angela while I slept. I'm sorry I let everything get away from me. It won't happen it again." She looked towards the Moses basket. "How did you finally get her to stop crying?"

"Sister Julienne figured it out. I mentioned Angela seemed fine on the way home from church and she suggested we take her for a drive. Sent her right off." Seeing Shelagh's frown, he asked, "What is it? Tim was careful with her in the car, and it was only around the block a few times."

"It's not that." She took a deep breath to stave off tears. "I don't always know what to do when she cries. I don't know what she wants or how to make her happy. What if she's not adjusting? What if I'm doing something wrong? Her mother would know what was wrong."

Her anxious talk worried Patrick and he gripped her hand tighter. "Her mother? Shelagh, you _are_ her mother. And you are the most patient, loving mother she – and Timothy – could ask for. Babies fuss, and all parents have bad days when they're tired. Some parents have bad weeks." He sighed, remembering the long, cold months after his first wife's death. "After Margaret died, I didn't know how to do anything – not only the cooking and cleaning, I was always rubbish at that. But suddenly being the only parent – I didn't know how to do _that_. I couldn't even talk with Tim about her death. I was so worried, all the time, about doing the wrong thing and screwing up his entire life."

He laughed drily. "It took me a long time – and some advice from a very wise and beautiful woman – before I figured out the best thing I could do was be there and love him; the rest would sort itself out."

Shelagh gave him a tentative smile. "At the convent, I did so much – nursing, teaching the other midwives, clinics, prayer. Now all I have to do is keep a tidy house and look after Angela and Tim, and some days I feel I can't even do that right."

"You do more than enough." Patrick paused for a moment, thinking. "I think I know what you need." He pulled her to her feet and led her to the sofa. When he bent over the Moses basket, she put her hand on his arm to still him.

"Don't, you'll wake her."

He shook his head. "I'll be gentle. She won't even notice." He carefully lifted the sleeping infant from her bed and placed her in Shelagh's arms. Angela squirmed slightly at first and both parents held their breath, waiting for her cry. But she merely turned her head and snuggled deeper into her mother's arms, drowsing contentedly. Shelagh felt the tension in her shoulders and neck ease.

Patrick settled on the sofa beside her, resting an arm along the small of her back. "See? You just needed a cuddle."

They sat in near silence, listening to the baby's soft snores. Cocooned as she was, daughter on her lap, husband at her side, Shelagh felt warm and surrounded by love. In such circumstances, it was impossible to be pessimistic, even after such a day. Tomorrow would be better.

"She is perfect, isn't she?" she whispered.

Patrick pressed a kiss Shelagh's temple, his reply muffled by her hair. "She is. Just like her mother."


End file.
